Learning to sing at 70

My former partner was a musician with seemingly perfect pitch, his whole identity caught up in being a folksinger, which left a little room for me to sing. Though he didn’t actively discourage me from participating, he didn’t seem to want anyone to mess with his gig. 

So I became the dog's body. The roadie. I was the one who did all the background stuff from advertising, and social media, to CD design to booth and merchandise design. And I was the one who researched the music, designed the jacket, bought, burned and printed all his CD media as well. I made thousands of CDs over the course of 20 years. We sold them at Highland games for petty cash, they never fully paid for themselves. 

The problem is of course, was that folks were no longer buying CDs. They wanted to download everything—which changed our relationship to being able to make any money at all off of the music. CD Baby was a good idea whose time came and went. No one wanted to buy a business card with a code for a downloadable album.

Most Highland Games don’t pay unknown artists to perform. Neil found it was difficult to break into the game because established musicians were holding down their respective coveted stages, including Alex Beaton who was instrumental at establishing folksingers at the Highland games. But Neil was lucky in that he was hired to be an emcee at a few games. Especially for the Las Vegas Highland Games. But that fee barely covered the cost of travel across the state.

But we were valiant and determined. We began small, closer to home with the Pleasanton Games, and Arbor Day in Fremont. I enjoyed those days traveling up and down the coast to Ben Lomond, Seaside, Pomona, Costa Mesa, Preston, Arizona, and Enumclaw in Washington—even across the Mojave Desert to Las Vegas. I grew to love visiting the desert in spring. I liked being a booth wench and belonging to the Scottish culture circus of a larger roadie family we were all part of. 

Letter to Yehiel on leaving Neil

To Yehiel Ben Benyamin        9/5/18, 11:33 PM

Dear Yehiel,

We had a blow up last month because I tried to pay a portion of the rent directly (which I've done in the past), and he lost it and told me I had to move out. No forewarning. And so I did.

Wupatki (photos)

As I revisited Wupatki Monument, I discovered it was built by the Kayenta Anasazi! Small world. I am still traveling within the culture. Last time I was here was with Celia Woloch in 1992. So it's a homecoming back to the self.

My friend Erik said the culture's "a mixture of SinAgua, Kyenta Anasazi and Cohonina peoples. The northernmost ceremonial ball courts, like Mexico, suggest contact with the Hohokam. Some may have become the Havasupai. 

 Others became Hopi clans. The Bear, Katsina, Lizard, Rattlesnake, Sand, Snow, and Water clans go there to remember their ancestors. There is a blow hole there which probably had sacred meaning. They grew corn and squash, harvested water and traded stuff all the way from the Pacific and Gulf of Mexico and Mexico."

I put my hat over the blowhole below the ball court and let it shoot up into the air. It smells of dankness and limestone and death. The sacred Quiché Maya twins Hunahpu and Hunahpu (or Xbalanque) played ball here too. In the caves of Xibalba, the Lord of the Underworld sighs.

Suddenly I am remembering, and missing John Oliver Simon, who took me to the underbelly of the world, and I am once again straddling parallel lives. Both coming and going. Time telescoping into itself like a Möbius strip. The jaguar sun fell from the sky, pierced to the heart by an arrow. I am counting katuns and facing the end of another relationship. Off with their heads. Let the games begin.

from Facebook notes, revised 4/23/16

At the Bob Dylan concert

We are standing in line waiting, hoping to get into the Bob Dylan concert. A last minute decision. We decide to join Vito and Connie but we have no tickets. Freddie, a parole officer, joins in the search. We are so many, we are circling the entire block of the Bill Graham Theater. We stand next to four buses idling, and are overwhelmed by the sooty odor of diesel. We know that Dylan is inside one of those dark buses. The buzz grows. 

The 20-somethings in the crowd may have tickets, but aren’t too sure who Dylan is. Neil works the crowd. Scalpers galore. Prices are through the roof. But he is optimistic. He works his magic, and finds one ticket at price halfway around the block. Final stretch into the auditorium and we still don’t have a second ticket. He scores one ticket at the box office, and a second ticket in the street, and bingo we’re in. It was so stressful. 

We are up in the rafters. The place is jammed. Blue light. Everyone is lighting up. It smells like the 1960s. The 20-somethings are rocking out, what’s the connection? This is their parent’s music. 

It was so strange to see Dylan in his maroon country and western leisure suit, opening with the Patsy Cline-ish cowboy songs. The concert was a musical pistache of R & B rock ‘n’ roll, swing, bluegrass—a progression of styles. He must’ve had a bank of a dozen guitars lined up for each nuance of the set. Shenandoah, nostalgic Civil War song reminds us of where we’ve been. I think of the juxtaposition of song, and war, and flag. No discourse, but the lyrics of the songs build on a political statement, ending with the antiwar songs. 

Dylan is still going strong at 60, a most dedicated performer. The music goes beyond his personality. Beyond his voice. But we don’t care. He sings I’ll be your baby tonight. Everyone knows the words. And they sing along with the times, they are a changing. Blowing in the wind. He brings down the house with Imagine. Nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too. Weird to think that about the time that Dylan became Christian, Cat Stevens became Muslim.

Someone lights up. You know what the next song is going to be. Everybody let’s get stoned. The audience lights up, right on cue—myriad red dragon eyes, or fireflies surround us. We are all stoned, It can’t be helped, we’re one giant contact high. Women throw bouquets of roses and scream, We love you Bob. I’m not a huge fan, but I get into the groove. They stone you when you’re playing your guitar. He changes the words to lyre. We giggle. It’s practically a karaoke club. His dozen guitars light up the night. 

Blue-eyed sons, all bald, now. No reprieve from the ravages of time. Neil is singing blowing in the wind under his breath. The only way to recognize some of the tunes is by the guitar chord progression. I’m thinking of rainy day women, hard rain, and blue-eyed sons. Today is not an endless highway, but we’re rocking in the balcony in unison. There must be some kind kind of way out of here, because the times they are a changing. 

As we leave the building the exit is a caracol, a human chain-snail oozing down the stairs. The bus screams, four more decoy buses pull out. Suddenly I know which bus Dylan is in. I flagellate Neil, telling him to run. I know where the bus will stop. Don’t ask me how I know, I just now. Call it newshound savvy. It’s all about timing. We run across the street and damned if the the bus doesn’t stop right in front of us. The impossible, possible, the improbable, probable. Bob Dylan opens the window, sticks his hand out and shakes our hands. Neil won’t wash his hands for the next year.

Journal entry, Bo Bonneau casting studio

10 Jan, 2000 I’m waiting at the Bo Bonneau casting studio in San Francisco trying to look like an affluent golfer for an Ace Hardware commercial posing as Neil’s wife, but after a blowout, it loses us any chance of the commercial. The strain on our faces is palpable, not exactly a harmonic convergence. It’s a real cattle call. I fill out the database, return the clipboard, never expecting to find work.  Golf clubs and tassel shoes everywhere. The overt preppiness of the crowd is a real mulligan stew. I’m blinded by the white.

2 May, 2000 Something must finally be working as I got a call back from Bo Bonneau casting studio for an AT&T commercial which landed me my first job as an extra, along with about 1000 other lemmings. Without Neil’s help, I might add. We will march through the hills of West Marin in droves seeking stellar telephone experience with a herd of sheep. Real sheep. Not cattle. I kid you not. The hours are long, and the pay is terrible, but better than no income at all. I get a little thrill when I see the checks from Burbank Studio, etc. Don’t quit your day job has never been more true.

Journal entry, back pain

6 Jan, 2000 A bit distraught I am, as the spasm in my back finally began to lift yesterday. I’m still easily tired, I need to soak and stretch. I’ve been walking around the lake the past three days to see if it will help. The only way out is exercise. The spasms are reduced to stretch pain. My ribs may not have ever mended from the accident. The pain was similar to what I experienced during the first 6 to 9 months. My orthopedic nurse practitioner said I may always have pain there, but the spasm was the worst that I have ever experienced, aside from the accident itself. It’s made me short-tempered, and Neil has been a bit obtuse, and self-involved, which doesn’t help.

Omagh Bombing (prose) part 2

While Irish minds marvel over the Celtic inferiority complex. How much longer must we suffer? I think of Tocharian mummies 4000 years dead, in their plaids and sun tattoos, faces as familiar as kin, guarding the Silk Road.

Lately the news has been ladened with images of Ulster men and references to World War I, the Battle of the Somme. Or am I newly sensitized, how do I desensitize myself to it for the cosmic links and the laws of averages.

But the words Colrane, and the Foyle have a different attack on my psyche.

Neil is playing the Protestant priest in Frank McGuinnes's play, Behold the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme. He is playing against type.

At the end they all put on their orange sashes, I didn't know what it signified, but it made me shudder anyway. O'Donnell Abu was the name of the song, we never called it the Old Orange Flute. It wasn't until I stood in Leiden looking upon the statue of King Billy, or William of Orange, that the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

In late spring we used to suck on the oat grass joints, sweet with sap, piggyback thistles and oats from Europe, Spain and Scotland, non-native species. Always I've lived a life of identifying what belongs where, acutely aware that I'm a long way from the land of my ancestors.

I am Irish when it pleases them, or I am American when it pleases them. Yank. No one asks what pleases me. The blood of my ancestors, or the land of my birth, as if one annotated the other.

So what of those who came to Ulster? Are they Scots or Irish? Where does bloodline leave off, and nationality begin? And why is it so horrific? 

Neil chastises me for drinking his whisky, is if I'd asked for something unattainable, like his heart. I’m offended. The thornless magenta rose I planted is about to bloom and already he is asking me to leave. The potatoes have yet to be harvested, and he is asking me to leave because I might get too close.

Tobar is Irish for the well, the sacred spring. I drink sacred water uisce beatha. In every language, it is the water of life. Mea maxima culpa.

The summer fog lifts long enough to reveal the turquoise jewel of the bay and it resonates against the flame trees on Bay Street, and the rust red of the Golden Gate Bridge. The straits of Chrysopylae shimmer like molten gold.

Yes, this city is the city of judgment, the judgment of Paris, an apple in the lap of California on this 150th anniversary of the Gold Rush. Gold flakes in a bottle, a souvenir from the feather River, where I toiled for pieces of the sun. And put them in the vial.

Journal entry, 7/10, Big Sur

7/10/1998  Big Sur was fabulous, it restored some sense of play, freedom and adventure. Since the accident we’ve had our noses pressed hard against the dredge wheel, reality pressing in from all sides. Other than a jaunt to Nicasio to see my family, or the rare evening among friends, we haven’t really done much of anything. No mini vacations etc.

We were planning to go to the Guinness Fleadh at Spartan Stadium in San Jose and it was so expensive the tickets were $42.50 each plus $10 for parking with no in and out privileges, no food no drink etc. We got pissed off and drove down the coast. We hung out at Asilomar, the scene of the crime, and I snagged a room on the at the Bide a Wee motel for $59. He didn’t want to stay at first and I ignored him. We played table tennis in the Asilomar Lodge  and visited the scene of the crime where he collapsed from the ulcer. Yes it was isolated, and yes it was at night, and yes, he really could have died there.

Journal entry, 4/17 continued

4/17 continued... I made a drawing of calla lilies today, I worked outside with my single flower turning it again and again for different angles to make it look like I have a full bouquet. I realized that the little black kids on the balcony were watching me trying to figure out what I was doing. One little guy said to the other, why does she keep looking up at us? And the older one explained, she’s drawing that flower. Look. But he wasn’t convinced and they argued about it for a while. I smiled and then held up the drawing. The ice was broken. The little guy said, tight! And I said thanks. There has always been a potential for hostility between them and us. They often throw trash into our little yard. Maybe now it will stop. Neil wouldn’t have leave anything outside. Stuff has been ripped off before. And now we leave the chairs and the tables and even the clothes we put the line up, overnight—with confidence having made that space a secret oasis. It is our dining room.

Speaking of our, I’m still in the dark as to what we’re doing, having cut myself off from him. I do have more strength I’m not dependent upon him. My domestic urge is still strong but I’m less attached, there’s a good distance on both sides still. But we regained some small parcel of ground. I climbed aboard him wrestling as we used to do and he wasn’t too responsive, he was that tired but a few feeble attempts restored something that was lost.

The boarder, medical student Tom was at the door. I leapt off Neil and sat up, all circumspect beside him, embarrassed by the compromising position only to have him crawl on top of me to throw it’s me. What I saw was a rekindling of affection in his eyes, we both have been dead and cut off since I left. We walked down to see the ducks at dusk and he again was ranting about the pain in the suffering, specifically how he regretted the blow up he had with his old man in Ireland.

He said, he was a real cunt about wanting to leave and instead of giving into him,I got angry and we weren’t speaking to each other and I thought at the time that I’d live to regret that moment—it will come back to haunt me. And it did.

He was pretty shattered by the time we got to the ducks. I tried to hold him from behind because he need to be held even if he didn’t want it. It reminded me of a pony I had who threw me, and at first I thought she was maliciousness until I discovered she was insecure and needed to be gentled. I guess she had gotten plenty of abuse from her previous owners. She knew pain and humans who inflicted were her adversaries. She had had hid her fear behind a socialized façade, she was seemingly well adjusted.

He broke away after a few moments, still intent on containing his own grief. His back was really hurting. He said, let’s sit down on the step. I massaged and held him, telling him to breathe, to let go of the grief, not to dwell on the anger and the resentment, but love—for love is what your father needs right now, not the other. Give him your blessing.

I gentled him the way I would a horse. I was a horse whisperer and I could feel him letting go. I was  inside him deeper than I have ever have before. Still I was cautious for it could be seen as invasive and he was so vulnerable. I was using my healing skills to restore the pathways for I do have that gift to enter the psyche though there were still so many lines of defense between us, we were able to find a common ground.

You are perfect the way you are I whispered, remember the self. Let go of the burden of grief and pain. You don’t need it to carry it around with you any longer. You are the phoenix rising from the ashes of the past. There is only this moment, twilight on the lake, the ducks and geese flying towards the setting sun. How do they know where to go with such determination he asks. We could hear their gobbling replies on the wind.

I could feel him letting go, feel the pain slip from his shoulder blades, feel a bit of hope for that ice that is his wilderness, was beginning to thaw.

Journal entry, post tax season 4/16

4/16/98 We made a quick quick dash down to the lake to visit the ducks which was a concession to me, for Neil has a midterm today, and needs to study. He lectured me on the pitfalls of poverty consciousness, when I said I was yet another grand in the hole from paying my taxes. He said,  You just got a $2000 job. Think of it in terms of more, not what you haven’t got. He’s right, but I am the the pessimistic optimist. I’ll believe it when I actually have the contract signed. He said remember when I sent you $2000 and I said your stress level rise to meet the occasion? It wouldn’t matter if it was $25,000. It’s still outside, a mental image of fuck you on the inside. It rises to the demand. True, that.

We celebrate with a salmon dinner. I dropped him off to study while I shopped for dinner and I felt like I’ve been given a reprieve on several accounts for I love being here and nearly having convince myself that we could become platonic friends, until we went down to the docks where he grabbed my jeans at the waist, sticking his hand between my cheeks left me over the edge, a rather familiar gesture for a man who professes interest no interest in my body. I didn’t let on, poker face as I was. Another time he remove the hot mitt from the stove mumbling about pilot lights and possible fires. A year ago I would’ve been pissed off at him, but this time I smiled knowingly, my back to turn towards him. Allow him his neuroses and quirks, for it to is a part of the the process. Be not attached. No gain.

It’s taking some time to restore the balance, but we are once again normalizing our relationship through established rituals, whether it be domestic like what do you want for dinner, or offering nurturing massages. Seeking the balance between the giving and receiving will always be our biggest chore in task, he had to give a whole lot more to me to get me through my taxes, as I had told him it would be so, then he had expected, but he did come through to the nitty-gritty end.

After dinner, our first outside since the range weekend, though we also had breakfast outside yesterday as well, he went to Berkeley to study, asking if I’d call some of the old Ulster gang, to see Romeo and Juliet at TheatreWorks, a play he had auditioned for. A lovely long chat with Lorcan whom I like very much, but he is a bit shy, and Jane Bark, Vito Orlando, and Allison Tassie, a real telephone night. Jane said you didn’t come to my puja, my housewarming. Neil said you were busy I said I had left him, having been fed up with our non-relationship on Ash Wednesday. I left him for the season of Lent. She said Ash Wednesday was a good day to leave. It was appropriate she said. He seemed a bit down, she noted. I said denial was buried in his name, and he wants to just be friends, and I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left.

Everyone seems to take it in stride that Neil and I are having a relationship, that he thinks it’s nothing more than friendship, but we all know better. Where do we go from here? I’m obviously a big part of his emotional makeup, as he is of mine. He’s afraid of definitions, and commitments, yet he desires the wife and kids thing, as an abstract. But, this is my home, this is my bed, we’re still sharing. Don’t rock the boat. See how long it will go on like this for he made the concession that we sleep together only this once for I am so fragile and I’m so vulnerable, when will he kick me out? Loose strands of my hair become a metaphor, turning up in the domestic arrangements, blankets, pillows, sinks, rugs, to claim residency.

The pearl is my oyster, I misread an ad for watches. If they carapace of the watch is the oyster, and the mechanism, the heart of the pearl, where does that leave time? For time allows nacreous intentions to grow between the shell and the quivering flesh. A conversation form Easter Neil wanted to know whether or not aphrodisiacs work and was there anything to it? Mostly in the mind of the beholder says Tom, but if you believe, it will work. Oysters seem to be a real-time honored aphrodisiac he concludes. His libido is raging and he can’t seem to find the right woman though he’s desperately searching.

Journal entry, 4/7/98, continued, my mother’s marriage certificate, tax woes

4/7/1998  I fell asleep sometime after 8 PM and awoke at 10:30 with the TV blaring, some lame squawk show, so I turned off the lights and went back to sleep—only to awaken again at 6:30 in the morning. I dozed until 7:30 AM, my first full night’s sleep since I left Niel’s place in February. For lent I gave up sleep? I don’t think so. I awoke with erotic thoughts of Neil and wondering if I jumped his bones if that would’ve made any difference, or would he have rejected me anyway?

Yesterday my mother‘s marriage certificate arrived in the mail and I had to laugh, she told me they were married sometime in February or March 1952, this after telling me I was born at eight months, or I was a love child. But the date was June 29th! Practically July—and I was born in November. Talk about being on the way. I was not an eight-month baby but a five-month baby. Right? She said I was the only child she carried full-term most likely because I was conceived in March. Whose wedding Was it, I wonder?

Neil called, wanting to know about Walt Whitman! and I gave some pointers on what to look for: free verse, his was the first truly American poetic form, etc. Then he asked me if I I plan to file my taxes and we got into an imbroglio—I become sullen and quiet. 

He prods me, asking if I choose to pack around this pain and suffering. I accuse him of abandoning me, not making the time to help me. I felt betrayed, and that he didn’t listen to me. What I needed was someone to physically walk me through the process, to hold my hand. He said he would as soon as school was out, but this year he wouldn’t be able to help me at all. I’m angry because he didn’t help me when he said he would, and now there was no time for me. I am not a high priority. How He worked his way out of that promise saying he’d help me, when all he did was to drive me to Office Depot to pick up some files and ledgers. That’s not supporting me,  or is it going over the process so I understand what I’m supposed to be doing.

Journal entry, 6/29 continued…

6/29 continued....this was stuff I couldn't bear to revisit, let alone, render it readable, so it stays here, stet.

Neil was worried about the expenses. I repeated back to him what he told me Easter Monday morning, “I’ll take care of you, you’ll never want for anything.” It becomes like a marriage vow. For better or for worse, I will take care of you—to the best of my ability, I will do whatever it takes, Neil. Know that. We live on my meager savings.

Tonight there was the benefit party for Neil at Kate O’Brien’s. Gary Mullan called to say it was a smashing event—that Neil should run for office! I only hope they raised enough for the July rent. (I asked the gods for $1500 to pay the bills; I secured $1000 from Verona.) We eventually got around $800. (Then there’s August rent to consider.) A severe blow: Neil won’t be in the play. Gary Mullan’s stepping in. They delayed the play another week. Maybe Neil will be able to step in during the 2nd half of the run. Daily his speech improves as the swelling goes down. His house is a mess. Daily I take on some little chore, clean one small section. I still can’t raise my left arm.

I had to move the car for street cleaning, a painful experience since I can’t turn the wheel when it’s parked. Though my strength is returning, my upper body is still weak from the surgery. I took the bandage off today, the dressing covering pustules. Here I was nagging Neil to take a bath and I was smelling my own rotted bandage. Old blood and carbolic acid. Today I showed Neil how to lean back in the tub so I could wash his hair… but then I got stuck in the tub and needed his help to get out, no H2O for buoyancy. It struck me that moment how dependent we are on each other to complete simple tasks to survive. A small metaphor encapsulating the larger metaphor. Each of us is alone, crippled without the other.

Both of us, independent souls to the extreme (we’ll gladly cut off our noses to spite our faces), forced to give in, to accept and work with the other. He rejected my offer to wash his hair, scrub his back, but had me comb and dry his hair, clean the blood out of his nose with q-tips. I had to remove my own bandage, it was supposed to come off yesterday and he wouldn’t do it. “Who’d take you to Emergency?” I was pretty annoyed he wouldn’t help me, so I did it myself. Asshole! A good thing too, it was infected. So much for interdependence.

I helped him remove his forehead bandage. Then I realize he’s not an asshole, he’s just frightened, I’m the stronger one. When it comes to pain, women always are. We drove downtown, our first outing together, to do some banking. It took the two of us just to drive the car. Neil put the car in reverse and cranked the wheel for me (he couldn’t still see very well…) and I managed the clutch, gas and brakes, though my left knee’s still pretty unstable. He buys me a latte, but I can’t handle coffee yet. Still too adrenalined out. Still shaking from exertion. I need a nap.

Our days unfold into a pattern: he nags me to eat (I have trouble eating), to rest more, to slow down. I nag him to eat (an easy task), keep track of his medicines, massage him. It helps the pain. He’s a good patient, not demanding as Alison warned. Nor was he “pushing me around.” Why was she warning me? They haven’t spoken to each other since a spat on Friday. He said, “She’s just jealous. She had the chance.” She doesn’t know what my relationship with Neil is. (Neither do I.) His comment about jealousy brought it all back home: the unasked: are we having a relationship? All the mixed messages. This is not the time to press for an answer.

Ironically, for his birthday, I’d offered an afternoon at the Calistoga Spa, a massage, and salmon dinner, but he was being evasive and turned it down and took up Verona’s offer for lunch instead. (Boy, did we all pay dearly for that decision. Some karma!) I was really hurt, for he was pulling back (again). And look at what happened… I teased him because he turned down my offer, so now I’m feeding and massaging him for weeks on end, instead of giving him a simple afternoon’s straightforward gift of my time and energy. Then I wind up living here on an ongoing basis. Ironic.

He has no clue he’s getting the best of my attention. I like the person who I’m becoming around him, having to take care of him. If he wasn’t injured, it would be a very different thing. A part of me is tempted to lay it on the table, tell him he’s stumbling, the so-called dance we began at Easter is faltering to a standstill. That he needs to come to some resolution: either he wants me or he doesn’t. This ambivalence is poisonous. But then I try to be considerate, and think this is no time to lay down ultimatums. Later, when he’s on his feet…

Last night we talked about trust and betrayal—when to cut someone off, our tolerance levels… I told him my limits, but I envy his clarity at being able to say to someone: this is a warning… Meanwhile, I’ve not warned him of his own trespasses, but I am keeping score of slights. Like the time he made a date with me to go to the SF Film Fest, but then stayed with some woman in Gualala, leaving me hanging in the lurch. I was really upset, ready to cut him loose. But then we saw each other again… and again—and nothing’s any clearer. I’m tempted to cut my losses again. But somehow we work through it.

6/30 From my dreams I always knew I’d be living with Neil, but not like this… fixing a pureed dinner of carrots and chicken. (I make chicken soup from scratch to bring my grandmother back into the room). He loves my chicken soup, it reminds him of his mother’s. I have to strain it for he still can’t swallow well. A lump of food or a bone would spell disaster.